Nine Circles: The 68th Hunger Games
by antivalentine
Summary: When reaped, Katniss recalls 'the year there were only horrible spiked maces that the tributes had to bludgeon one another to death with.' This is the story of those Games, and of the twenty-four tributes sent into an arena modelled on Hell. Not an SYOT! All tributes are my own.
1. Chapter 1 : Reaping Districts 1 & 4

Lustra's bedroom is a mess. After she made the decision last night, she ransacked her closet, strewing clothes all over the snow white carpet in her quest to find an outfit worthy of showing to the entirety of Panem. Eventually she settled on the red satin halterneck with the black polka dots that she wore to her sixteenth birthday party. It's the most expensive thing in her wardrobe, and Valiant liked her in it, even though she worries that it makes her shoulders look too broad. She didn't bother picking up the rest of the clothes, but it doesn't matter because she's never coming back to this hellhole and this time her stepfather won't be able to yell at her.

Either she'll have a mansion of her own in the Victors' Village, with a wardrobe full of gorgeous clothes, or she'll be rotting quietly underground. All or nothing.

Well, she's always been a gambler, and both outcomes are sounding better than her life at the moment. She's already spent a week crying over Val, dissecting every word he said to her for signs of hope that he didn't really mean it, that he does love her after all. Logically, she knows he's right. It's a bad idea to get too attached to anyone if you're planning to volunteer, and there's a widespread belief (among the boys, especially) that being in a relationship makes you go soft. You lose your edge.

But Lustra knows this isn't true. After all, she never felt murderous before she saw Val talking to that slut from her music class last month, the girl twirling her hair around her stupid fingers and mindlessly laughing at everything he said. She went to practice after that and threw her javelin further than she'd ever thrown it before; imagining it sinking into her rival's heart, skewering her like a kebab. 'Excellent work, Lustra' said her coach. 'Keep that up and we might be asking you to go to the Games in two years time.'

Not good enough. She can't spend another two years crying in her room, another two years watching Val flirt with all those pathetic little gamer groupies, another two years being yelled at by her stepfather and slighted by her mother. She will go to the Capitol, and she will do what she has trained to do.

If she triumphs, he'll worship her for her bravery; and if she fails, he'll always feel guilty for driving her to her death. Either way, he'll never forget her. No other girl will ever measure up.

She applies a slick of her mother's red lipstick and arranges her dark blonde curls. Her face in the mirror is still not the face she wants. The jaw is too square, the eyes too close together... she's not a beauty like her mother, but resembles far too closely the father that they never, ever talk about. The father who died when she was only two, shot by the Peacekeepers after he went berserk and throttled her mother's lover...

He was a killer too, Lustra reminds herself. And he killed for love. I can win this. It's in my blood.

She casts her eyes dismissively over the discarded piles of clothes and slams the door on her old life forever.

* * *

On reaping day, the boats from the outlying villages come into the harbour in bright convoys, waving their flags, laden with children in their best clothes. For some, it's the only time they'll come into town all year. It's a holiday, a festival, and the sun is blazing down accordingly on the cool blue water, fracturing on the waves and glittering like diamonds.

Coral, Sabrine and Mollie are arm-in-arm as always. They are the Fabulous Three, the Terrific Trio, and various other alliterative names they have invented over their thirteen years of being best friends. They were born in the same village within eight months of each other, and while, like any sisters, they are prone to spats and spitefulnesses and fallings-out, they are mostly inseparable. They plan weeks ahead of the reaping to co-ordinate their dresses, and this year they are all in orange, the better to stand out from the blues and greens that District Four girls tend to gravitate towards.

'We'll look like a giant goldfish!' Coral declares as they skip along the crowded deck, waiting for the ferry to dock.

'Um, I'm not sure I want to look like a fish...' says Mollie.

'We could make fish mouths when the camera sweeps the crowd!' Sabrine adds, pursing her mouth into a O and blowing imaginary bubbles. Mollie elbows her in the ribs and the three of them collapse in giggles. They know Sabrine's sister and the rest of the older kids are looking at them in disgust and rolling their eyes, but that just makes them giggle even more.

Sabrine keeps making her goldfish face right up until the escort totters up on stage in a pair of electric blue platforms so high she has to cling to the railings to stay upright. Finally, she manages to stagger over to the microphone stand and, clinging to it for dear life, screeches at the top of her lungs 'Happy Hunger Gamesss Dissstrict Four!', making the three of them snigger at her Capitol accent and struggle to regain their composure as she reads out the usual preamble about why they're all here today. Blah blah rebellion blah blah, ungrateful districts yadda yadda, united we stand etc. etc. It's all just filler until this year's mentors are introduced...

'FINNICK!' they scream as a tall, handsome teenager bounds up next to her, grinning and waving. Coral, the shortest of the three, bounces up and down on tiptoe, craning her neck to get a better look at their idol. It sucks being so far from the front and having all the older kids blocking their view. Even in their goldfish dresses he'll never notice them, but it doesn't stop them screaming at the top of their lungs, trying to rise above the general cacophony. Naturally, nobody takes any notice of the female mentor, who is old enough to be their mom.

The crowd only calms down when the glass bowls are wheeled in, full of tiny slips. The girls link hands and exchange nervous looks.

'And thisss year'sss female tribute issss...' She gropes around inside the drum, retrieves a piece of paper and unfolds it triumphantly. 'Mollie Krill!'

Mollie is paralysed. Everything suddenly sounds muffled, as if she were underwater. She knows that Sabrine and Coral are screaming, and the rawness in her throat suggests that she is screaming too. The crowd is parting around them, everyone's eyes turning to focus on her, Coral squeezing her hand so tightly that it hurts and Sabrine gabbling frantically 'It's OK, Moll, it's OK, don't worry, there's always volunteers, it'll be fine, there's always volunteers...'

There are not always volunteers. Nonetheless, the thought gives her the courage to loosen her hands from theirs before the Peacekeepers can come to escort her; and somehow, dazed as she is, she finds herself ascending the stage to the sound of cheers. As Philadelphia Wolter babbles on, she searches the faces of the eighteen and seventeen-year-olds at the front. _Where is my volunteer? There must be a volunteer. I'm only thirteen._ As the seconds pass and her panic rises, she realises that none of them are meeting her gaze. None of these older girls can look her in the eye.

There is not going to be a volunteer. This year's female tribute is Mollie Krill.

Tears of shock and dismay spring to Mollie's eyes. She can't bring herself to look for orange dresses in the crowd because she knows Coral and Sabrine will be falling to pieces. And her mom, and her dad, and her little brother... There must be a volunteer. There must.

'I volunteer as tribute.' A clear voice rings out from near the front, and for a split second Mollie's heart jumps. She's safe, after all.

But no. The voice wasn't a girl's voice, and the figure borne aloft on the shoulders of the seventeen-year-olds definitely isn't a girl. He strides up to the stage, not especially tall but muscular, acknowledging the cheers of the crowd with a bright, wide smile and a clenched fist in the air.

Philadelphia, in her platforms, is six inches taller than him and bends awkwardly at the knees to ask 'And what isss your name, young man?'

'I'm Tench Nott, Philadelphia,' he announces proudly, and as the crowd goes wild Mollie remembers who he is. He was in the same class as Finnick - he was in the interviews when Finnick made the final eight - they were friends - they probably trained together.

It hits her why none of those older girls were willing to step up. It must have been common knowledge among the career tributes that this was Tench's year, and nobody wanted to be up against him. Because they wouldn't have a chance.

She doesn't have a chance.

Sabrine was wrong. She's going to die.

Mollie screams, but her voice isn't working any more. She just stands there, in her ruffled orange dress, staring blindly into the cloudless sky, her mouth open like a goldfish.


	2. Chapter 2 : Reaping Districts 9 & 11

'Live transmission starts in three... two... one...'

On cue, the good people of District Nine cheer as floodlights illuminate the podium in front of the Justice Building. The eyes of the Peacekeepers are on them, and anyone who fails to show the requisite enthusiasm runs the risk of being labelled an enemy of the Capitol. Miller Warsch digs his hands into his pockets and stares at the ground, ignoring the jostling and noise around him. Screw the Peacekeepers. What are they going to do about it, beat him up? It'd be no worse than he gets in school every day.

Something bounces off his skull. It didn't feel wet, so that's not too bad. More like a screwed up bit of paper, but he's damned if he's going to give them the satisfaction of crouching down to check. He's familiar with the texture of most of the missiles that get aimed at him. Popcorn has always been a popular one. He loathes popcorn, but then he loathes most things. Most things, and pretty much all people.

He hates reapings. He hates being made to stand around doing nothing, hemmed in by all the losers he spends the rest of his life trying to keep away from. He hates the cameras, beaming them live to the Capitol so they can all gloat about how grotty the districts look compared to their glittering metropolis. He hates the ridiculous-looking Capitol escorts and the doddery old mentors. He hates the way they... pause... a full thirty seconds... before making the big announcement of this year's sacrificial lambs. It sets his teeth on edge.

But he loves the Games.

He loves the Games because everyone else in District Nine secretly hates them. A bunch of random kids getting slashed and hacked and burned and starved to death... what is not to love? Before he even turned twelve, he was fantasising about how awesome it would be if one of his classmates got reaped and he got to see them killed on live TV. Serve them right for tripping him up in the schoolyard, chucking things at his head, sneering and mocking him every damn day. Miller the mute. Miller the weirdo. Miller the loner.

These days, the girls think it's funny to pretend they like him and coo 'mmm, Miller, he's soooo hot' before falling about laughing. He'd love to watch one of them slowly put to death for the purposes of entertainment. He's pretty sure he'd get more pleasure out of it than those vapid Capitol citizens would.

So when they start rooting around for the girl's name, he has his fingers crossed it's going to be someone he knows. Hopefully she'll cry. That would wipe the smirks off their faces.

'Zea Newson.'

Damn. He's never heard of her. He watches her emerge from the pen of eighteen year olds, stooping slightly in that apologetic way tall girls have when they don't want to stand out from the crowd. Plain, gawky, light brown hair cut in a messy crop, fingers knitting and unknitting anxiously. She might have the advantage of age, but that's all she's got. Another lamb to the slaughter. She's got the look of a victim rather than a bully, but that's not enough to make him feel sorry for her.

Now for the boys. OK, another chance here. Please don't let this year be a total wash. He closes his eyes and crosses his fingers, wishing hard.

'Miller Warsch.'

His eyes spring open. Already those around him are shouting and pointing, shoving him towards the Justice Building. He spins round, raising his fist.

'Get your stinking hands off me,' he snarls. 'I'm going. I'm not a coward like you losers. Let me through!'

He elbows his way through, making sure to tread on as many toes as he can without going out of his way. Yeah, they're going to laugh pretty hard when they see Miller the midget side by side on the podium with that girl, who has to be at least a foot taller than him. Whatever. He's got his ticket out of here, and they're going to give him weapons. _Weapons_. They're going to let him loose in an arena full of random kids, and tell him to kill as many as he can, as gruesomely as he can manage.

He can hardly wait.

* * *

You get bussed everywhere, in Eleven. They bus you to school, in rickety trucks that sit outside all day recharging in the baking sun before ferrying you back home again. They bus you out to the fields, wherever they need you, whenever the crops require extra hands, packed like sardines into metal boxes that shake your bones and make your teeth ache as they bounce over the cracked, pitted roads. And they bus you to the reaping, every last one of you, as if you needed reminding that your lives are not your own.

Reaping is what happens after sowing. You pluck an apple from the tree, a purpleberry from the cane, a blood red tomato from the plant which bows under the weight of so much food. However much your belly growls and your mouth waters, they are not for you. Never for you. Everyone has seen a thief beaten before their eyes. It's a lesson you all learn young.

In the same way, the Capitol plucks a sweet boy from the mother who grew him and went hungry so that he might eat. It uproots a fresh young girl from her native soil, and whisks her off to be devoured before her bloom can fade. This is reaping. It is harsh. But it is how things are.

Only... let it not be Terre. Let it not be Plow. Let it be someone else's brother, someone else's son.

Sorrel Cross's mother died in childbirth and the baby passed with her, so that was two less mouths to feed. And one less wage coming in. In those days Grandma was still with them, and only Yarrow was old enough to take tesserae, so it was hard. Plow was hardly more than a baby himself, and there were times, when he refused to eat his gruel, that it was tempting to take the unwanted bowl for yourself, in a vain attempt to fill a stomach that was always aching, always swollen, always empty.

But somehow he survived. Somehow they all did. Except for Grandma, who was old, and tired, and really just wanted to be with Momma and the last baby. Now Plow is twelve, and can take his own tesserae. What else can you do? It is a choice between the lottery which may kill you and the starvation which certainly will. It is not a choice at all.

When they call her name, she doesn't falter. She lifts her chin and walks straight on up there. The number of times her name is written in that bowl, it's a blessing they didn't call her last year. Or the year before.

She made it to seventeen, she tells herself. That was lucky. And she never stole, not even to lick the pulp of the burst peaches from her fingers. She never lied, or no more than she could help it. She did her duty and she loved her family; and because they've chosen her it won't be Terre, it won't be Plow. Fate is cruel, but not that cruel. Their chances will be better now. They will get to be eighteen. They will get to marry and have families of their own. She will only ever have this one.

Perhaps at the end of this journey she will be with Momma, and Grandma, and the last baby who never got to live at all. Or maybe she won't. Maybe she'll just sleep, knowing nothing, dissolved into the soil.

She's going to carry herself proudly and not let herself cry. She's been strong all her life. She can't weaken now, not so near the finish line. Reaping is what happens when you sow. And death is what happens when you get yourself born.


	3. Chapter 3: Goodbyes Districts 2 & 3

'There are three sets of people you have to bear in mind. Grip?'

Hadrian Lunkel speaks fast and low, trying to squeeze all of his victorly wisdom into the ten minutes he has to say goodbye to his daughter.

'The other tributes,' says Agrippina flatly. 'The audience. The Gamemakers. Screw up with any of them and you're dead.'

'It's easy to lose sight of the audience and the Gamemakers once you're in the arena. I see it happen year after year. They forget to play the triple game.' He pauses and sighs. 'I just wish I had another couple of years to prepare you. '

'Grip will be fine,' interjects her mother brightly, her voice still bearing traces of a Capitol accent. 'I know you can outrun that great lump of a boy with both your feet tied together.'

'Hercules is good...' begins Hadrian.

Grip snorts. 'Hercules is _stupid_. Last time we went to camp, all he did was whine about the rations not providing enough protein.'

'OK, he's lazy, but he's also strong. Remember what happened to Antony?'

Grip is pretty sure that what happened to Antony is going to be discussed a lot over the coming days. Antony was a decent wrestler until he had the misfortune to have a training session with the then thirteen-year-old Hercules. Oh, he survived, but he'll never wrestle again. Or walk, for that matter.

'So he can snap necks. Big deal. He's still an idiot.'

'A useful idiot. At least in the short term. Remember, an ally is just someone you haven't killed yet.'

'I wish you were my mentor,' says Grip abruptly.

This is the nearest to a declaration of affection anyone in her family is ever likely to get, so naturally Hadrian brushes over it.

'Pfft, I'm too old and out of the loop. You'll get more sponsors through Enobaria, trust me. She has a lot of influence. Don't suck up to her because she'll despise you for it, but keep on her good side and she'll see you right.'

Like she's going to risk getting on the wrong side of someone who can rip out a rival's throat with her teeth.

'I still wish you'd had a chance to volunteer rather than being reaped,' he continues. 'People are always that bit more intimidated by volunteers. All we can do is make everyone realise that you're fully prepared for this.'

'Winning is in your blood!' adds her mother. 'It's your destiny. They'd be stupid to bet against you.'

Not for the first time, Grip compares and contrasts the attitudes of her parents. Her father sat her down when she was eight and explained to her that, because he was a victor, it was probable that at some stage the Capitol would engineer her reaping. 'The only thing you have to know about the Hunger Games,' he said, 'is that the Capitol always wins. Victory is not the same as winning. I didn't win. I just didn't lose. They'll use you to remind me that the Capitol always triumphs in the end. Do you see?'

(She didn't, to be honest. Well, she was only eight.)

Her mother sat her down when she was ten and explained to her that, because District Two had this habit of training kids to win the Games, it was possible that at some stage Victors' Village would become overcrowded and they would be evicted from their lovely home. But! If Grip herself became a Victor, they could stay there whatever happened!

This was more comprehensible. Even at ten, Grip knew her mother wouldn't be able to cope with life outside the confines of the Village. She was Capitol-born, after all, though she'd been forced to give up her citizenship when she moved to her husband's native district. Living cheek by jowl with Two's merchants and quarrymen would not be her style at all. Grip also realised (though her mother was too tactful to spell this out) that the house was only theirs as long as Hadrian was still alive.

So, more or less as soon as she was capable of understanding what the Games were, Grip knew she'd be participating in them one day.

She just didn't expect it to be quite this soon.

She doesn't have any friends to say goodbye to. Her parents didn't think it was a good idea for her to develop friendships among her peers, so she was never allowed to ask anyone over to play. Play in the Lunkel household was always a dangerous proposition anyway, mostly involving sharp or heavy objects. Her only friend is her dog, Cerberus; and even he is a weapon, a slavering sharptoothed mutt who strains madly against his leash whenever they go out, making strangers shrink back and swerve to avoid them. She wants to ask them to make sure he gets his two daily walks, and be sure not to feed him any raw meat as it makes him go a bit psycho. But Hadrian is talking again, about what she needs to grab first from the Cornucopia and what skills she should focus on in training, and she can't interrupt him with trivialities about the dog.

_I wish I could take him with me_, she thinks. _He'd be better company than Hercules_. She can hear Hercules's goodbyes from here: the backslapping from his coaches, the laughter from his friends. Grip arranges her features into her death stare, silently psyching herself up for the weeks to come. Hercules is no threat. He's just someone she hasn't killed yet.

* * *

Volta Hogan, like Grip, is an only child who has just been reaped. The similarities end there. Her parents don't have any advice for her. They don't have any words. The three of them sit huddled on a saggy old sofa in District Three's Justice Building, their arms around each other. Her mother is crying, desperate wracking sobs that shake her from head to toe and are the only sound in the room. Volta strokes her messy black hair, trying to comfort her, but there is no comfort to be had.

Volta is beyond clumsy. She tripped on the steps going up to the stage, and she fumbled her handshake with the boy - Jobe, she thinks his name was? - but that's normal, for her. She's always the last to be picked for teams in school, can't tell her left from her right, can barely tie her own shoelaces. People tend to think she's a bit simple but there's nothing wrong with her brain, it's just that her body won't do as it's told. Her dad thinks it's something to do with when she was born; she arrived several weeks before she was supposed to, which is about the only time she's ever been early for anything, and the midwife had to pump her chest with her fingers to get her to breathe.

Maybe she shouldn't have bothered. Maybe it would have been easier for her parents to lose her then, rather than sixteen years later. It would certainly have been easier for her.

She rests her head on her dad's shoulder for what she tells herself is the last time. She'll cry later, on the train, when the reality hits her. Right now, she's still in shock. It took her a while to realise it was really her name that had been called; Volta isn't an uncommon name in District Three, and she's never taken tesserae, so why would it be her? It was only the girl next to her squeezing her shoulder and saying gently 'Volta, you have to go, I'm so sorry' that prompted her, otherwise it would have been up to the Peacekeepers to drag her up.

Her mom wrenches a ring from her finger, and with another wordless sob presses it into Volta's palm. A token. Volta's throat contracts. It's the eternity ring commemorating her own birth; a thin gold band set with three tiny emerald-cut zirconia. It's probably the most valuable thing she owns.

'No,' Volta protests, 'I can't take this...'

'It's no use to us,' says her dad. 'And you should have something from home with you. Please. Just take it.'

Obediently, Volta slips the ring on her finger. It catches the light, briefly, winking at her as if to taunt her that things can still be beautiful, even though she is going to die.

'Thank you,' she says solemnly.

'We love you very much.' He chokes up on the last word - her stoic, laid-back dad, who never cries - and her mom sobs again, and Volta puts her arms around them both and hugs them as if she'll never let go. Even the rap at the door doesn't move her, even when the Peacekeepers appear and fold their arms, waiting.

'On the count of three,' says her dad in her ear. 'One... two... three.'

And Volta lets go.

'I love you,' she mouths as the Peacekeepers escort them out.

'We'll see you soon,' he replies. His tone is unexpectedly calm, and something of the same calm fills Volta as she is left alone. She looks at the ring and traces the stones with a trembling finger.

_One... two... three._


	4. Chapter 4: Goodbyes Districts 5 & 10

'I'm here to say goodbye to my girlfriend'

'You can't be. I'm saying goodbye to _my_ girlfriend.'

The two boys look at each other in shock and confusion as a laugh rings out from the portly middle-aged woman behind them.

'Oh Maxeen' she says. 'Who else would get themselves into a mess like this? Which of you is coming in? Both? Neither?' She pushes her way in front of them. 'I'm her mother, that's her brother, that's her brother's fiancee, the girls behind them are her best friends and these are her boyfriends,' she informs the bemused Peacekeeper, who steps aside to let them all pass.

As they enter, the fourteen year old girl on the couch buries her head in her hands. Ray and Thane aren't meant to know about each other, yet here they are in the same room. Along with her entire family and her girlfriends to witness her humiliation. This is definitely the worst day of her life. Possibly the worst day of anyone's life, ever.

'Max?' says Ray, bewildered. She just knows he'll be wearing that injured puppy look and she can't bring herself to look at him. She utters a low groan into her cupped hands. 'What's going on?'

'Tell him, Max,' Thane cuts in. 'Tell him you're with me now.'

'Maxeen, talk to me, please,' begs Ray.

Maxeen feels the cushion dip as her mother plonks herself on her left side. 'I think you've got some explaining to do,' she chuckles.

'Just tell me what's going on here,' Ray wheedles, and Maxeen's patience snaps.

'I got reaped, duh. Like I don't have enough to deal without you guys pestering me. I just got fricking REAPED, people. Cut me some slack.'

'I'm not pestering you, babe,' says Thane. 'It's this punk here who's causing the trouble...'

Ray is outraged. 'Um, I'm not the one causing trouble. Me and Max have been together for six weeks now...'

'Woo. Do you want a medal?'

'No, I just want to know what the hell is going on!'

Maxeen's mother laughs again and nudges her daughter conspiratorially. 'I think this is what they call busted, sweetie.'

'Shut up.' Maxeen scowls and rakes her fingers through her tangled auburn hair. It looked so nice this morning, but she's been fiddling with it all day and now it looks like she's been dragged through a hedge. It was stressful enough being in the town square, knowing both the boys were there and might seek her out later - she deliberately rolled up late so that there was no risk of one seeing her with the other before the Reaping began - and then her name was pulled out of the bowl, as if to punish her for two-timing. Fortunately, everyone in District Five is way too scared of the Peacekeepers to call out to the tributes, so nobody shouted out they loved her or anything embarrassing like that.

It's not even her fault. Thane approached her when she was hanging out after work with her friends, and he was hot, and what was she going to do, turn him down because of Ray? She was sort of planning to finish with Ray even before she hooked up with Thane. He's kind of clingy and she isn't ready to get serious with anyone yet. The trouble is, whenever she plans to break up with him he does something sweet, or even just looks at her with his puppy dog eyes, and she can't bring herself to do it.

Ugh. And now the Capitol has decided that she can't have either of them and they're both going to hate her forever. OK, so having two boys on the go at once is shady behavior, but it's hardly a capital crime. She doesn't deserve to be a tribute, she doesn't deserve to die. It's so unfair.

Maxeen starts to cry - angry, hiccuping sobs - and then everyone seems to remember where they are and why they're there, and nobody seems to know what to say anymore. Her friend Blaze whisks Ray off into a corner to give him the lowdown about Thane, and Maxeen has a vision of her comforting Ray when she's gone, putting dibs on him before she's even on the train, and it makes her so mad she wants to scream. Her mom keeps laughing like a moron and pretending to believe she's going to win the entire Hunger Games... 'Well, you're a sly one, aren't you? Just play the boys off against each other, hahaha!'

And Thane just looks sad. She never wanted it to end like this. They always had fun. If she could only just kiss him one last time... but she doesn't want to rub Ray's nose in it, and she doesn't want to give Blaze any more reasons to comfort him, and she knows she looks like hell anyway, all red-faced and snotty-nosed and messy-haired.

It kills her that this is how they'll remember her. It's so _unfair_.

* * *

The mood in District Ten is rather less somber than it usually is at this time. Jenzen Brock is the best chance they have had of winning this past decade. As he sits down to wait for his family and friends, the applause and cheers of the crowd are still ringing in his ears. He's always been popular, but not this much. It didn't escape his notice that a number of girls started crying when his name was called, and now the hopes of the entire district are riding upon his shoulders.

It's a big responsibility; which he's only made worse for himself by grabbing the microphone and promising to bring District Ten the victory this year. He just got caught up in the moment, and wanted to make everyone feel better about him getting picked.

It seems to have worked. Here's his dad, his brothers, his classmates, all the guys from the farm... Jenzen has a brief pang thinking of his horse, Daystar. She's not much to look at, and hardly taller than he is, but when he's in the saddle trotting over the pastures that's the most free he ever feels. All he did when he said goodbye this morning was slap her briskly on the rump, assuming that he'd see her again tomorrow. It was his fourth reaping day, and people get blase about these things.

Before he knows what's happening, he is hoisted aloft and seated on his brothers' shoulders as everyone bursts into the traditional District Ten song 'All McDonalds have a farm', making the animal noises with gusto. By the time they've got through all the livestock, the Peacekeepers are already at the door. There's barely time for his mom to run in, hug him and whisper 'If anyone can win for us, it's you. Get hold of a rope and nobody will be able to stop you.'

It's true. Nobody needs a rope to lasso cattle any more - modern breeds are too obese to walk and wait patiently in sheds for slaughter, fed by drips and injected with whatever exotic flavors the Capitol demands - but rope skills are still prized, and useful for showing off at weddings and such. Jenzen is a champ. He can noose a tree stump at twenty paces and wrench it out of the ground. He can catch a horse. Shouldn't be too hard to catch a tribute.

And then what?

He works on a farm, he reminds himself. He's looked into the docile brown eyes of the calves as their throats are cut, before they're hung upside down to bleed slowly to death so the Capitol's veal can have the pale color they prize. Cutting the throat of a career tribute is basically the same thing, right? It's what they've been reared for.

He hugs his mom tightly. 'Nobody can stop me anyway. I promised everyone I'd win, and I always keep my word.'

'Come on, guys.' A Peacekeeper peels his mom out of his arms. 'The train's ready to leave.'

Jenzen squares up, casts one last look at the people he's leaving behind him. 'We're going to have one hell of a party when I get back!' he shouts, and then he's gone.

The other District Ten tribute is already sitting on the train, waiting. Her eyes are red, her dark brown hair is scraped back into a ponytail and she twists a checkered handkerchief around her fingers.

'Hey Beka,' says Jenzen cheerfully. 'Goodbyes are rough, huh?'

She looks at him coldly. 'My dad thinks you're going to win,' she says.

Jenzen grins. 'That's the plan.'

'Great. Even my own district is rooting for me to die.'

The smile dies on Jenzen's lips. 'Beka, nobody's hoping...'

'Only one of us can make it back home. And I think we've all established it's not going to be me.' She casts her eyes down to the floor. 'My dad has some crazy idea that you might be able to look after me. Like he doesn't understand there's only one winner. I have to die for you to win.'

Jenzen can't think of any response to this. He can't argue. Everything she says is true.

'Don't feel too bad,' says Beka. 'Nobody from our district ever wins anyway. I guess it'd be nice if things were different this year, but to be honest I don't really care. Not as if I'll be around to see it.'

Wow. Way to put a downer on things.

'So, no chance of an alliance then?'

Beka shrugs as the train begins to move. 'It'd keep my dad happy and make everyone love you even more. Why not?'


	5. Chapter 5: Journeys Districts 6 & 7

The train out of Six reaches full speed almost immediately, the rails being better maintained than the barely-used lines to the outer districts. Kew fidgets in his seat, wondering whether his mom helped to build this one. It would be nice if she had fitted his chair he's sitting in now. She would never have imagined that one day he might be on a train, heading to the Capitol.

Kew chews his lip. It is very important that he doesn't cry. He's never been away from home before and he doesn't even have his bear. He should have brought him just in case. OK, the other boys would have laughed at him, but at least he would have had Raggles, and it might have consoled him a bit for not having his mom.

On the other hand, you could hardly be filmed in front of the whole of Panem clutching your teddy bear. It would be like painting a massive target on your forehead. As if he doesn't already have the equivalent of a massive target on his forehead, being a twelve-year-old from District Six.

It is very important to be brave, so his mom will be proud of him. She said she was proud of him anyway, but he wants to make her proud. He's not going to snivel like a baby, and he's not going to think sad thoughts about missing his mom or his sister or his bear. He sits up straight in his chair.

'OK guys, let's put the TV on. I think we might just catch the last couple going out live!' Caius Iridia, the escort, is a weird-looking guy with rainbow streaked hair and matching eyes. Nobody should have rainbow eyes. It creeps Kew out.

As the screen flickers into life they are joined by their mentor. There's only Dooley Shaw this year, as the other regular mentor is sick or something. She looks weird too, but at least she doesn't have rainbow eyes, just silver beads braided into her hair and no shoes on her feet. She used to work in a hovercraft factory, painting the fuselages, and she won her Games by covering herself with plant dyes, camouflaging herself in the forest, and waiting it out while the others killed each other. Eventually, the Gamemakers flushed her out by setting fire to the forest; but by then the other two remaining tributes were already engaged in a fight to the death, and all Dooley had to do was wait for them both to succumb to their injuries. She's an artist now. Her paintings used to fetch good sums in the Capitol, but now they've fallen out of fashion. She stares at the TV with vacant, dreamy eyes, and doesn't acknowledge Caius or her new mentees.

The scene in front of them is dingy and the crowd is relatively small. Probably Twelve, then. By the look of it they only have one mentor too, and he doesn't look much more with it than Dooley does. _At least we're not the only ones_, Kew thinks. He sneaks a look at his fellow tribute, Saskia. She's a few years older than him so she might have a chance, but then again, maybe not. Unless she's super awesome at painting too. She sits in silence, watching the final reaping unfold with her lips pinched together. She doesn't look like a cold blooded killer, but you never know.

'Oh, poor Effie,' comments Caius, his voice dripping with insincerity. 'She's still stuck out in the boondocks, poor flower. She was there way back when I was still doing Ten, can you imagine? I'd have quit by now. I don't know how she stands it.'

Nobody bothers responding, but Caius carries on regardless. 'Oh, at least Haymitch shaved this year. That's a small improvement. Have you ever seen the QQ reruns? He was hot back then. Such a shame how he let himself go. Oh, she doesn't look like a threat. Twelve never does, though. It's the earlier ones you really need to see, much more exciting. I do like to catch the lives though. When I was doing Ten it was awful, you hardly had time to watch anything during prep and by the time you were on the train it was all finished. I wish they'd do a closeup on her. Ah, there she is. Well, her bone structure's not terrible and her eyes are rather fine. Nothing spectacular though. Let's see her partner... Oh, dear, no. His stylists will have their work cut out dealing with that skin. Shame really, apart from that he has a lovely chiseled look. More fashion than Games. Such a shame.' He sighs.

Kew just sees two skinny-looking kids of about Saskia's age, with smiles that don't reach their eyes. Why does everyone have to be bigger than him? He doesn't want to watch any more reapings and he definitely doesn't want to listen to Caius's running commentary. He brings his knees up to his chest and hugs himself into a ball.

* * *

_Breathe_, Tim tells himself. _Breathe. All you have to do is make it from one moment to the next._

But it's hard to stay calm when you're watching Careers get reaped... or, rather, eagerly reap themselves. Those kids are scary. What is he saying? They're not kids. They're full-grown adults. More grown than he is, and he's eighteen. Eighteen and eight months, to be precise. Possibly this year's oldest tribute... though looking at the guy from District Two, that is difficult to believe. Eighteen years isn't long enough to grow muscles that size, surely? His certainly don't look anything like that. Of course, he hasn't had the advantage of training. He's been too busy earning a living to pump iron, packed off to the workshop as soon as he could be trusted not to saw his fingers off. At least if he'd been out in the forests he might have learned to wield an axe, or built up some muscles lugging logs around the lumber yards.

He's pretty good at dovetail joints, but somehow he doubts this is going to score many points with the Gamemakers.

The girls haunt him, though. The District One girl, fighting her way to the front, her smudged lipstick and flying fists contrasting strangely with her girly dress and golden curls. Raven-haired District Three, slight and mute and stumbling, her head already bowed in defeat. The pretty blonde of District Four, tanned and glowing in orange, and the girl from Five whose hair is the exact same shade of mahogany as the varnish they use for jewelry boxes...

Girls, in general, haunt him. He just can't seem to learn the trick of getting with them. At worst, he's invisible. At best, he's... still invisible, really. He can't blame them. Who's going to be interested in a dork like him when there are swarthy lumberjacks to be had? His grandma always told him to be patient. She always said his time would come, one day, when they'd had their fun and wanted to settle down with a good, kind, honest man.

But he's eighteen, damn it. He has needs right now, not at some unspecified point in the future. And what good has patience done him? His time's never going to come. He's never going to be any older than eighteen...

No. It's no good, thinking like that. You can't give in to despair or you'll be finished before you've even started. Right now, he's still breathing. It's a good enough start. And the prospect of imminent death is a pretty good incentive to get something done about the situation. He's not going to die a virgin. He's just not. He refuses.

Tim doesn't think he'll have any luck on the train, though. His district colleague, Chloris, is too young - only sixteen - and still has her puppy fat. He knows her, vaguely, because everyone goes to the Portlands' shop for their dried goods and cans; they're the cheapest in the district, even if their flour does have a suspiciously chalky aftertaste. Probably she's never even taken tesserae. She seems a nice enough kid, but she's not going to be any help on his mission. Or any mission, probably.


	6. Chapter 6: Journeys Districts 8 & 12

Poplin is literally on the edge of her seat, bouncing up and down in anticipation. This is it. This is the moment she's been waiting for all her life.

'Poplin Jons!'

She wishes the camera could have caught her first reaction. She's pretty sure it was perfect. She'd like to know if she really did whisper 'Yes!'; she seems to remember doing so, but she was in such a daze it's impossible to be certain. Why is the camera taking so long to find her? Yes! Here she is, at last. On the screen. Where she belongs.

Poplin lets out a little scream of excitement, then frowns briefly. That goofy expression is not what she wanted Panem's first impression of her to be, and her suspicions are confirmed that she really shouldn't risk smiling, it shows far too much gum. But still! She's actually on TV! Thousands of people are watching her right now. She's famous.

Poplin has planned on becoming famous since forever. Now it's finally happening. She feels dizzy. That's her face up there. Little Poplin from District Eight. She squeals again, and the boy sitting across from her looks at her like she's crazy. That's OK. She's used to people looking at her like that. She's very misunderstood. Nobody really gets her passion for the Capitol and the Games. Her mother actually made her promise - swear on her commemorative sticker album from the 65th Games, in fact - that she would never volunteer. Strictly speaking, she's banned from taking tesserae as well, but that never stopped her. She just sold her rations on to people who needed them. It was a pretty brave thing to do, seeing as selling tesserae was automatic grounds for public whipping, but Poplin likes to think of herself as fearless in the pursuit of her dream.

And now it's all paid off. The train is shooting like a bullet through the heart of Panem, bound for the Capitol, leaving grimy, ugly District Eight far, far behind. Bye, clanking cotton mills, farewell, dangerous dyeing plants, sayonara sweatshops! There she is, on the screen, waving and smiling, jumping up and down, neon-bright ribbons streaming through her long brown hair, and the eyes of all Panem are upon her.

The goodbyes were a drag. Her mother came storming in, accusing her of having bribed the Peacekeepers to fix the ballot. As if. What was she meant to bribe them with, her secret tesserae? Sexual favors? Come to think of it, that was not at all a bad idea. Poplin kind of wishes she'd thought of it herself. Her stepfather just sighed and asked her if she was happy now, to which she simply responded 'I've never been happier!' And her siblings gave her the usual 'you are a crazy alien from another freaking planet' look, which was only to be expected because both of them are entirely boring and predictable. No drive, no imagination, no ambition.

The table is laid with delicacies the likes of which she's never seen before. Poplin doesn't even know what most of it is, and anyway she's far too excited to eat. This is it! She's going to the Games! She has to prepare for her chariot ride, and the interviews... should she try her Capitol accent out on Caesar? Everyone back home laughs at her attempts to do a Capitol accent, but then they laugh at real Capitol accents too, so that could just as easily mean that her accent is really good...

She'll need a lot of sponsors. She can run reasonably quickly and trains when she can, throwing darts into a corkboard on her bedroom wall, but since she's had no-one to help her she knows she'll never defeat a Career in hand-to-hand combat. She's not very strong, but she wouldn't want to be; bulging muscles are not very attractive. No, she'll win the hearts of the sponsors and their benevolence will get her through. She flashes a blazing smile at their mentor, Woof, but he's too intent on the TV to notice.

Why is he even bothering to watch the other tribute? Bobbin's thirteen. He has no chance. He's just another gutter kid. She knows the type. They've dropped out of school by the time they're ten and run wild in the streets, stealing and vandalising everything in sight. She wouldn't be at all surprised if the Peacekeepers snuck an extra couple of slips in there with his name on, just to get him out of their hair. Certainly those urchins turn up in the reaping more often than might be expected given their relative numbers, even when you take into account that they're all living off tesserae. And they never last long, being half-starved and not knowing anything about how to survive outside their own environment. OK, there was one who made it to the final four in the 62nd, but that was only because the arena happened to be an abandoned city and that naturally favors the urban districts. Poplin is hoping for another city. She can scale a fire escape and find a foothold in a brick wall. Trees? Not so much.

* * *

Avon Gibbson stares out of the window, though the train is traveling too fast for anything to be more than a blur. Another hour, apparently, and they'll be there. He can't stop thinking that every minute is taking him further away from home. His parents, his brothers, his sister, his girl. Iris.

'Doesn't that make you feel sick?' comes a voice from the door. He looks round and sees Lissy, nodding in the direction of the window. 'The speed of it. I can't look at it without wanting to throw up.'

'Or that could be the amount of turkey you ate last night,' Avon teases her. They're friendly enough, but not friends. You can't really be friends with someone who's under orders to try and kill you.

'Could be.' Lissy flops on to the couch opposite him. 'I'm hiding from Effie. Haymitch is still passed out and she wants to whine about it to anyone who'll listen. If he's awake by the time we get there, it'll be a miracle. He's dead to the world.'

'Lucky him.'

Lissy drops a chocolate into her mouth and chews meditatively. 'It must have been hard for him. The Games.'

'Not that hard. He won, didn't he? More than anyone else back home ever manages.'

'True.' She reaches for another chocolate, seems to decide against it, and lets her hand fall. 'You know, my mom was pregnant with me when he won. Maybe that's a good omen.'

'Yeah, maybe,' shrugs Avon, though they both know she's clutching at straws here. And if it's a good omen for Lissy, that means it's a bad omen for Avon. He feels bad for her, but on the other hand she's had two more years on the planet than he has, and he guesses she's had a happy life. OK, so the Larchgroves have never had any money, and Lissy must have been breaking records for the amount of tesserae she took given the number of kids in her family - Avon himself is the third of four children, but Lissy is one of eight if you include her stepsisters - yet they never complain, they always seem to be laughing, and while they may be hungry at least they're all healthy.

Avon's mother didn't even make it to the reaping; she was having one of her bad days, one of those days where she can't get out of bed and winces whenever you touch her. She only just got there in time to say goodbye because Artie's workmates ran back to the house to fetch her, and carried her all the way. 'If only I could take your place,' she whispered, gasping in pain, stroking his cheek. 'I'd be glad to go, but you... you have your whole life ahead of you.'

'Don't say that. You'll get better.' But they always say that to her, and it always sounds hollow. How can they hope for a cure when nobody even knows what's wrong?

_If I can just get to the final eight_, he thinks. If the cameras come and film her, then maybe some doctor from the Capitol will see her and be able to help. Maybe someone in the audience will feel sorry for her and pay for medical treatment. It's a long shot, but right now it's all he's got to hold on to. Something good might come out of this. Something that would make everything worth it.


	7. Chapter 7: Arrival (1 & 11)

Flashlights popping in their faces, screaming from behind the barriers. District One always gets a good reception, and this year is no exception. On the advice of their mentors, Lustra and Raptor have changed back into their reaping outfits to make themselves instantly recognisable. As luck would have it, they're both in red... but then, that's probably not luck, since the coaches back home are pretty big on color psychology and volunteers generally do roll up in red. It's the color of victory, apparently. And blood.

Raptor wears a loose red shirt, unbuttoned to halfway down his waxed chest, and tight gray jeans. Around his neck hangs a gold disk engraved with an eagle, wings outspread. Lustra finds him unbearably vain, and not half as goodlooking as her Val, but he's been surrounded by gamer groupies for years and he's already used to adulation. He loves the attention, waving benevolently and winking at the cameras.

Lustra is playing it differently. She is cool and aloof, flicking her hair over her shoulder as if arriving in the Capitol is something she does every day. There's a fine line between looking enthusiastic and looking weak, and she doesn't intend to cross it. Raptor's training score will be high enough that he doesn't need to worry about looking weak, but she has to bear in mind that she's two years younger than he is.

It definitely helped when she punched that other wannabe volunteer square on the nose. Way to make a statement. It couldn't have worked out better if she'd planned it. Unfortunately the cameras didn't get a great shot of it, but everyone in District One is bound to know what went down, and with a bit of luck Caesar will mention the incident. Even if it doesn't make interviews, Cashmere is sure to let potential sponsors know. Traditionally, District One is very popular with sponsors, and Cashmere is already excitedly talking about her and Raptor as a dream team.

Dreams are OK, as long as they last. But sooner or later Raptor will have to wake up. The big advantage of being a surprise volunteer is that, while she has a pretty good grasp of Raptor's strengths and weaknesses, he knows next to nothing of hers. He knows she's hot on javelin, and he saw her throw that punch, but that's about it. She, on the other hand, knows that he is arrogant, that his affability is all an act, that he's a sucker for a pretty face, and that, while he can sprint like a demon and tackle pretty much any opponent to the ground, his sword skills lack finesse and his stamina is nothing to write home about. You can cover that stuff up well enough in a half-hour session with the Gamemakers, but not from the boys you train with year in, year out; and, luckily for her, Val has a loose tongue.

He didn't say goodbye to her.

She sat through the stilted farewells with her mother and stepfather, then with the girls from school and training who were all hyped up from her punching that other girl, then a bunch of boys who'd just seen off Raptor and stopped in to wish her luck while he spent his last moments with his dad and brother... but no Val. No Val. It was _inhumane_.

Or maybe he just couldn't handle it. Maybe seeing the girl he loved head off to the Hunger Games was more than he could bear.

It's killing her, not knowing why he didn't turn up. Right now, she's on an emotional rollercoaster. One minute, she is devastated and doesn't care if she lives or dies, the next she is furious and is ready to slaughter all twenty-three tributes, pretending that every one is him. But she's not going to give any of this away. As far as the cameras are concerned, Lustra is your standard-issue District One ice queen. She flicks her hair again, and tries to look bored.

* * *

The eleventh-floor apartment is large and palatial, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the bright lights of the Capitol, carpet so soft, deep and thick it's like walking through clouds, squashy cream sofas that engulf you and make it next to impossible to get up again. Scythe sinks into them and finds himself engrossed by the TV. Back in Eleven, there's not much to watch, just the news and endless Games reruns, interspersed with occasional fawning interviews with the President. Here, there are talk shows and dramas with ad breaks every five minutes for stuff he doesn't even recognise, things like luminous breakfast cereal and musical shoes and pills to treat vague unnamed maladies. Everything is brighter, faster, louder.

It gives you a headache, after a while. There is even a red button on the wall marked 'HEADACHE', to cover such eventualities. Scythe hits it and a small white pill is dispensed alongside a glass of iced water from the shute below.

He swallows the tablet and wades through the carpet to see what Sorrel's up to. She is gazing out of the window in her bedroom. He tells her about the TV and the headache button and she looks at him blankly.

'You could fit three families in this place,' she says.

'I think they run guided tours of the building the rest of the year,' says Scythe. 'Like they do with the arenas. So it's not like it goes to waste.' He's aware even as he says it that it is a ridiculous thing to say, that of course it is a waste, when there are people in Eleven living in shacks and digging wells to get their water. This bedroom is twice the size of his kitchen at home.

And Sorrel's probably poorer than he is. Her people are casual labourers, who go wherever they're needed most and sometimes aren't needed anywhere. True, they often get better wages than the regulars, but most people, given the choice, would rather stay in one place, where you get to know the ways of your overseers and make companions of your workmates.

'Do they all live like this in the Capitol, you think?' Sorrel asks.

Scythe shrugs. 'I guess so. I can't see why they'd put on anything specially fancy. Not like it's going to take a whole lot to impress folks like us.'

'I don't like it,' says Sorrel. 'It's cold.'

He can't help feeling irritated that she's being such a brat. 'There's some kind of panel on the wall of the lounge, I think that controls the temperature.'

'Not that kind of cold. Cold like... lifeless. Empty.' She makes a sweeping motion with her hand.

'Well, we won't be here for long,' says Scythe. It comes out harsher than he intended. 'Come and watch the TV. It's light years better than at home.'

'No thanks. I'm going to try and sleep.'

'Again?'

She smiles her sad, gap-toothed smile. 'I can't escape any other way, can I?'


	8. Chapter 8: Stylists (7 & 8)

Tim's prep team are fussing around him, buffing and polishing him into a brighter, shinier version of himself. They've rubbed some kind of cream into his skin that makes him look tanned, and they've dyed his hair and cut it short, with bangs across the forehead. He has to admit that the new look suits him, though he still has his doubts about the shade of black they've used. It really looks more blue than black, a deep, rich, midnight tone. It brings out the blue in his eyes, which he always thought were more of a nondescript gray. Why couldn't he have stylists back in District 7? He could have done with them then. Now, he looks the best he's ever looked in his life, and it's ironic, because he's probably not going to get to look like it for very long.

He's still examining the golden sheen of his arms when he hears the door slide open. He looks up and momentarily forgets to breathe.

The girl in front of him is unlike anyone he has ever seen in his life. She's almost as tall as he is, but that's not what's striking about her. She has violet hair tumbling loose over her shoulders, all the way down to her knees, and her skin is tinted a soft shade of lavender, fading to white at her fingertips to contrast with her metallic purple nails. She is almost entirely covered up, but the fit of her floor-length silver shift leaves nothing to the imagination. Tim gulps.

'Hi, you must be Tim. I'm your stylist, Porphyria,' she says in a voice as silvery as her dress, and reaches her hand out to him.

Tim realises that he is completely naked. He automatically grabs his junk with one hand and offers her the other. Ugh, there's no way she won't spot how sweaty his hand is, and he only hopes the fake tan manages to camouflage his blushes. This is the most embarrassing moment of his life, easily. And to think it was all going so well.

She smiles at him. Her teeth are, of course, perfect.

'Well done, guys! Tim, you look great. I'm so glad we got a good-looking guy this year, the costumes are going to work so much better!' She claps her hands with enthusiasm as another assistant comes in behind her laden down with artificial branches. Obviously, District 7 get to be trees again this year, but Tim isn't paying attention to the details of his chariot outfit. _She said I was good-looking. Oh wow, this is the best moment of my life. She said I was GOOD-LOOKING.._

Tim stares straight ahead and tries to keep his mind under control as Porphyria and the make-up artist slather him in brown body paint, dragging brushes along his skin to make it look like wood. _Do not think about wood. Do not think about how the paint feels. Do not look at Porphyria..._

But it's hard not to look at Porphyria when she is in such close proximity to him, stenciling leaf shapes on to his cheeks while the prep team tie the branches to his arms. Her fingers are so soft, they remind him of the white satin they use in the workshop to line the jewelry boxes. He wishes he had some of his work right now, to show her. She is so beautiful. She deserves beautiful things. He's convinced she must be able to feel his heart thumping as she massages glue on to his torso. This is terrible. This is wonderful.

Her dress is stained with paint and glue and woodchips but she doesn't seem to care, bouncing around the prep room, snatching up piles of glittering emerald leaves, her lovely face solemn as she concentrates on creating her work of art. He is her work of art. His only item of clothing is a brown thong, and he wishes he could keep covering his modesty with his hands but his arms keep getting stuff done to them and it's impossible. The _piece de resistance_ is a headpiece, covered in two-foot-high branches, which has to be strapped under his chin because it's so heavy. 'Five minutes to chariots!' shouts someone frantically.

Tim catches sight of himself in the mirror and relaxes. It's OK. He doesn't have to worry about how he looks, because he doesn't even look like Tim anymore. He barely even looks human. He is entirely Porphyria's creation, some kind of preposterous woodland god, and he feels like he can face anything. He understands, now, why all this fuss is necessary. This is his suit of armor.

Behind him, Porphyria's violet eyes meet his in the mirror. She looks anxious, suddenly, and a shiver runs through him. _This is terrible. This is wonderful._

'Thank you' he says. They are the first words he has trusted himself to say to her, and he's relieved that his voice is level, solid, even a little deeper than he expected. 'You're an artist.'

Porphyria's face lights up. If he thought she was beautiful before, she is positively incandescent now. 'Thank you' she whispers, her breath warm on the back of his shoulder, and he wishes everyone else would evaporate, just go already, he doesn't want to look at or talk to or think about anybody else...

'Four minutes to chariots!'

She runs alongside as they walk along, rearranging this leaf, pressing on that loose piece of bark, and when Tim climbs up into the chariot the presence of his district partner barely registers with him. All he can do is look at Porphyria, hoping that his eyes will say what his mouth can't. He doesn't know what he would say to her, even if he could. But maybe his eyes know.

* * *

'Are you kidding me? Is this meant to be some kind of a JOKE?' Poplin can hear her voice rising unpleasantly, both in pitch and in volume, but what other reaction can she reasonably have to being ordered to wear a GIANT COTTON REEL?

The stylist obviously isn't used to tributes standing up for themselves. 'We've actually been working pretty hard on the costumes the past couple days,' he says petulantly. 'Let me explain the concept to you...'

'I understand the concept just fine, thanks. I am a giant cotton reel and... don't tell me, Bobbin is a bobbin. Right?'

The stylist breaks into a grin. 'Right! Obviously we had to do some extra work on his costume, cut it down and paint the insert silver and so on, but it turned out great. I get that yours by itself might not seem that stylish, but once you see how they work together...'

Poplin holds her hand up to silence him. 'OK, hold on a minute. Let me explain _my_ concept to you. My concept is, this is the first time the Capitol gets to see me in person and I need not to look like an idiot. This costume makes me look like an idiot. Therefore, I can't wear it.'

His grin is still in place, but starting to look strained. 'Like I said, you really need to see how they work together...'

'No. I really don't.'

'But, you see, District Eight is textiles and...'

'I know what my damn district does!' screams Poplin. 'I lived there for seventeen years, and I just got out of there and I NEED to look good on this goddamn chariot! Do you understand?'

'You will look good, honey. Here, just slip it on over your head, it's lighter than it looks...'

Poplin pushes him away. 'Get away from me! I am not wearing that thing!'

The evil stylist smiles. 'There are no other costumes, hon. You can take it off as soon as the chariots are done, promise. It's just a few minutes and then you never have to wear it again.'

'If you touch me,' says Poplin sweetly, 'I will bite your fingers off.'

He presses a button on the wall and the prep team come running back in.

'Hi guys,' he beams, motioning to where Poplin is standing, flat against the wall. 'I'm going to need your help to catch her, and we might need a security guy as well. Listen, Poplin, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. Which is it going to be?'

Ten minutes later, Poplin emerges in tears and a giant cotton reel. The plump girl on the chariot in front of her looks equally glum. _At least I don't have a tree on my head_, Poplin consoles herself. She turns round to check out Nine, who are a study in contrasts; she is a tall, fair, gentle-looking corn dolly, while he is a short, dark, scowling scarecrow. When he sees Poplin looking at him, he draws his finger slowly across his throat. _Charming_, she thinks, looking away and craning her neck to see the Careers at the front. If any of them catch sight of her in this get-up, her chances of joining them will be slashed. Fortunately, she is beginning to form a contingency plan. It's crazy, but isn't everyone always telling her she's crazy? Crazy could just be her USP.


	9. Chapter 9: Waiting (4 & 5)

The other Careers look... scary, Mollie thinks as they approach.

'Hear you trained with Odair,' says Raptor casually, draping his arm over the gold-painted side of the chariot.

Tench nods. 'Yeah, known him all my life. The train up here was a blast, getting to hang out again.'

Tench and his celebrity friend. Yawn. This time last week, Mollie would have thought it was a dream come true to be sharing living quarters with Finnick Odair, but the reality is not so great. She's too starstruck to look at him, let alone talk to him, and in any case Finnick has zero interest in her and spent the whole train journey reminiscing with Tench while Mollie alternately slept and cried on her mentor Nerissa's shoulder. Nerissa and Philadelphia keep telling her to eat as much as she can and fatten herself up for the arena, but her appetite has completely vanished.

Everything is a blur. The goodbyes are a blur. She remembers nothing about getting on the train and meeting the mentors. She knows she started freaking out in the Justice Building and they had to inject her with something to calm her down. Nerissa says not to worry about that because it happens quite often, but it's best not to mention it to the boys. They probably know anyway. It knocked her out for hours.

'You?' says the District Two girl, looking coldly at Mollie. Mollie smiles nervously. Grip doesn't smile back.

'Finnick was before my time, obviously, but I swim, fence, throw... all the usual.' She tries to sound bright and confident. It's true she's had a few fencing lessons, and the coach didn't seem to think she was terrible. Hopefully she'll be able to pick up some extra skills in training before anyone notices she's useless.

'You can't have trained much... what are you? Fourteen?' Raptor sweeps his eyes over her appraisingly.

Mollie decides it wouldn't be wise to correct him. 'Finnick was only fourteen when he won,' she retorts, the smile still plastered to her face.

'She wasn't a volunteer, naturally,' Tench puts in. Mollie glances at him, horrified. _Why is he doing this? He doesn't need to put me down to make himself look good._ 'We have some really strong girls back in our District. Problem was, none of them wanted to go up against me.'

'Same here' grunts Hercules.

Grip looks at him with disdain. 'Bullshit. The only reason nobody volunteered is they all knew I had a better chance of winning than they did.'

Hercules shrugs and ignores her. _Oh no_, thinks Mollie, _Tench is undermining me, District Two apparently hate each other, and the girl from District One is giving me the evil eye. _She keeps smiling nonetheless. _What did you expect from a gang of trained assassins?_ she scolds herself. _You're not here to make friends and you wouldn't choose to be friends with these people anyway. But they're your only chance of survival. So pretend_.

* * *

On the chariot behind, Gram leans forward, trying to be inconspicuous as he eavesdrops on the Careers' conversation. Beside him, Maxeen picks at her freshly applied nail polish, a glittery charcoal which she finds ugly. Both are in matching gray bodysuits, with pipe-shaped hats which apparently, when the chariot starts moving, will start belching out smoke. They have already agreed that these are surely the most monstrous costumes conceived in the history of the Hunger Games.

'I hate my life so much right now,' Maxeen announces, rebelliously chewing on her thumbnail. Gram holds his finger to his lips to silence her, and she rolls her eyes. Like what use is it going to be listening to the Career kids trying to outdo each other? They'll stick together at the beginning and turn on each other somewhere in the middle. That's what Careers do. No great mystery.

But Gram is looking for a crack where he could slip in. There's a definite girl/boy divide going on here. The boys are older, stronger. None of the girls are over sixteen, and only one of them is a volunteer. Grip could be an asset, but she looks the lone wolf type. Probably peel off a couple of days post-bloodbath, if not before.

He's been betting on the Games for a couple of years now, and he wins marginally more than he loses. The Gamemakers are fond of skewing the results by sending random mutts and unnatural disasters after the favorites, but you soon learn to factor that in. Gram's good with figures anyway, quick at calculating odds. He planned to start running his own book next year or the year after, once he had more time on his hands. Career-wise, he was probably going to follow his dad into safety inspecting, which isn't well-paid, so the extra income would have come in handy.

But if he could win the Games itself, all his previous winnings would pale in comparison.

He likes Maxeen, so an alliance with her is out of the question. He doesn't want to watch her die, and he certainly doesn't want to be the one who has to kill her. What he needs to do is get in with the Careers, because they'll be the ones with the weapons and supplies and he doesn't fancy his chances of living off the land. If he can just convince them that his brains are the perfect complement to their brawn...

'One minute' announces the tannoy, and the Careers go strolling back to their respective chariots. Gram straightens up and glances at Maxeen.

'OK,' he says. 'Ready to roll?'

'This is so embarrassing. I want to die.'

_Speak for yourself_, thinks Gram. _I intend to live._


End file.
